Not That Sort Of Girl: Suicide Daydreams

I wrote it in the inside cover of my diary and forgot about it. I don't know if it counts as writing.

The scars aren't deliberate, she's not that sort of girl_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

                                      Outside, lying on the ground, arms bleeding onto the grass, stains of green and red blossoming on the material of her tee-shirt. There's a spider on her neck, its miniscule fangs raising a welt on the sensitive, pale skin. Staring up at the sky, the sun casting a charcoal-coloured shadow onto the ground and a stripe of fire across the sky, blurring like flames and watercolours.

                                                  The blood is drying, lines of red-brown. She picks herself up and walks out of the garden, to the road that lies beyond the flaking-away black-painted gates. The road is busy, but she crosses to each side regularly, meandering, lost in her own mind. No need to care anymore.

                                                 Soon she is at the canal. There are no more people walking along either side with their dogs. They've all gone home, not knowing what they are missing.

She leans forward, falling slightly and she's gone.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

                               A body surfaces. The case is discontinued. A family who never notice, and friends who mocked her darkest hours, they sob.

"But it wasn't suicide!"

She's not that sort of girl _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

 

                                    

The End

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